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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008134">better living through chemistry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon'>sakon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Left 4 Dead (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, The Passing (Left 4 Dead)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:35:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The girl looks like his ex-wife when she's about to blow up— or when she was about to. Nick sighs again, then scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. <br/> <br/>The odds aren't stacked, but Nick's a gambling man.</p>
  <p>He'll never have to see them again, and they'll be on their merry way. Nick doesn't contemplate his words and says, "For what it's worth, he went out like a light." </p>
</blockquote>Nick gives news to the first survivors.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nick &amp; Left 4 Dead 2 Survivors, Nick &amp; Left 4 Dead Survivors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>better living through chemistry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's a fresh dead body in front of the generator, and all the other group's whisperings — sullen and all that jazz— begin to make sense. </p><p>That must be their guy, the man they lost getting the bridge up. He looks like he was lost in a shit affair, to say the least<em>. </em></p><p>Even then, the dead body in front of him, in cold death, commands presence. The old man isn't big like the casino brutes he's had to juke more than a few times, but something tells Nick to gaze — and when something tells him to stare with reverence, Nick refuses. He won't stare with reverence, but he will respect the dead. Really, he isn't that scummy. </p><p>He's Bill. He looks as crochety, strict, and old as he expects from their whispers — <em>"I think Bill would've shot him by now," The tie, Louis, says with his knee bandaged up — </em>and more so with a gun in his hand. There's a cigarette in his mouth, ashes still bright, and dried blood crusting across the floor, head bowing only in death and eyes half-opened. </p><p>He musta looked whatever killed him in the eye.</p><p>Still, it's a goddamn rough end, no glorifying that. He bets the history books will anyway. Well, in the case that there are any.</p><p>At least it wasn't the hordes. That would be much worse. Instead, he looks half-peaceful and fully satisfied. His job in this world is complete, and rest is all the man needs now -- or something sentimental like that. </p><p>He's disturbing the old man's rest, but he's too dead to care. </p><p>Nick steps around and tries not pushing the corpse anyway.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>One gust of wind out the door, and he's feeling the tension. </p><p>Nick glances at the survivor group.</p><p>One man's hobbling, the girl looks ten seconds away from a meltdown and twenty away from decking anybody, and the shit biker isn't as talkative as he imagines a shit biker to be. </p><p>Fuck, they're rough. </p><p>It doesn't take a genius to notice that ever so often they'd look expectantly at an empty space or gaze at the beyond sea; if Ellis, a moron, caught the strange feelings, then anyone would. Nick sees it clear as crystal, so he assumes they notice, right until he realizes otherwise. Ellis doesn't notice, and Rochelle doesn't say much about them beyond comforting Ellis' woes, with Coach and Ellis talking about the girl in red— and if they notice, they aren't keen on mentioning it.</p><p>Nick kinda gets that.</p><p>(Family is a touchy subject. Well, he doesn't have much of one to begin with, but he understands the sentiment.)</p><p>The other group isn't keen on mentioning it either. Nick doesn't know why he is— though he hasn't mentioned it yet. Hell, he doesn't even know them. If they came up talking about this and that when one of his team died, then he would probably knock their joints and cut them across the sagittal plane. Coach would appreciate it though. Ellis probably would. Rochelle would. Nick wouldn't. </p><p>They're kind-of-nice like that. Nick isn't. </p><p>Condolences are a waste when whiskey exists, but since it's not smart, he'll probably need to appreciate them when the time comes. </p><p>He won't anyway.</p><p>The time won't come. That Nick <em>knows</em>.</p><p>(Nick imagines losing Coach, then promptly shuts down the train of thought; if his finger slips a trigger once, then Coach might be <em>actually</em> dead. And Rochelle. And Ellis.</p><p>Not the time to think that when they just might die.)</p><p>He looks around at his team, staring face on at the danger. Ellis fiddles with his gun, Rochelle surveys the area, and Coach stays alert— but they aren't listening to him, much less looking at him, and that's exactly what he wants. He only has a damn second or two to do this before the hoards thicken— and maybe if he reasons hard enough, he'll find that doing this will help his group survive.</p><p><em>Camaraderie</em>.</p><p>(Nick pushes back the thought he would do anything to help them survive. Sentimentality isn't his suite, and he'll tell them those words when he's dying or when they finally reach paradise and get to pick a poison— whiskey— from a bar shelf and throw one back.</p><p>Pushing back the next thought — he isn't doing it just for that, is he — more come to his mind.)</p><p>Getting along with other people; networking with people, then maybe not dying.</p><p>Nick saunters up to the platform with people. A brief flash of <em>they would appreciate this</em> lights through Nick's mind. Yikes.</p><p>There is no way to say it nicely. Nick clears his throat, then asks, voice lazy and unceremonious, "Was the guy in there Bill?"</p><p>The girl in red takes a step forward, and the group jostles. </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"White guy, white beard, " Nick thinks of Santa Klaus and all the childhood memories the apocalypse would take from people, "M-16?"</p><p>Zoey, the girl in red, stares at him and doesn't answer. The red-tie beside her does.</p><p>"Yeah, that's Bill alright."</p><p>Nick sighs and says, "He looked decent."</p><p>He forgets to say 'kind of happy.'</p><p>Nick's throat scratches quietly, and he isn't the best at giving condolences; nobody's ever given them to him before — hell, his ex-wife couldn't muster a sorry if it saved her life — and he isn't exactly in the know on this. </p><p>He just knows that the world is rough, and he appreciates people having his back. Well, he would be dead if they didn't.</p><p>The girl looks like his ex-wife when she's about to blow up— or when she was about to. Nick sighs again, then scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. </p><p>The odds aren't stacked, but Nick's a gambling man. </p><p>He'll never have to see them again, and they'll be on their merry way. Nick doesn't contemplate his words and says, "For what it's worth, he went out like a light."</p><p>"—Huh?" The girl bites, waiting for Nick to continue but staring at him with clear contempt - or could it be surprise? The men behind her jostle, and he can already sense the increasing hostility. </p><p>Maybe, it's Francis; maybe, it's not Louis.</p><p>(Why is he doing this, again—?)</p><p>"<em>He</em> didn't die painfully," His eyes flicker to the generator where a man was, "—within a few seconds. No pain." </p><p>It's a curt response because they don't have time, and as much as Nick loves feel-good-feels, he isn't trying to die for a dead man. </p><p>Nick adds on, "Happy,"</p><p>But this they do deserve; well, Francis doesn't. The other two look... Fine. He can pass it off as some kind of incentivizing. Nick turns around, feeling the rumble of feer against the ground, shaking and rocketing cataclysms. Damn, what a waste of fucking time. </p><p>It doesn't matter when there's literal hordes coming his way, does it? He'll be fucking eaten alive by then. </p><p>"Thanks, Nick,"</p><p>Nick turns back around and stares up at her blankly. Her voice is shaky, and it looks to be what she needed after all. The guy with the pitched voice stares at him, and Nick resists the urge to throw a rock at him <em>and</em> the biker. They look too shocked about it. </p><p>"I'm serious," The woman says a little softer, "Thank you."</p><p>He glances only one more time before Zoey's voice gets drowned out it in the screams of oncoming hoards, and Nick shrugs with a roll of his head and neck and the barely angling of his head downward, a respectful "<em>You're welcome</em>," if she's ever seen one. </p>
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